Last Tuesday my muse
Packed a spare drape and a string of pearls
In a small, brass-bound, water-tight chest,
And flounced out,- though
Not before delivering a homily:
YOU, she said, pointedly, are a
Lying on the settee
e n d l e s s l y
Playing Hearts on your
B l o o d y iPad.
I could see she was upset, so I looked up,
And said, not without sympathy:
Look, I USED to be a poet.
I flung words onto a page and watched them burn.
I slipped between sheets of paper;
I slapped a metaphor and
Tickled a simile but, I ask you,
Where did it get me?
'Precisely!' Hissed the pissed muse.
I ignored the point, but -
I had to smile.
'Slam the door behind you, won't you?' I requested,
A split infinity too late.